


Recycle

by Tzalmavet



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: (spoiling the fic that is-- not the game), Gen, Starvation, Tags Left Off To Avoid Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzalmavet/pseuds/Tzalmavet
Summary: The Batter waits for his puppeteer to come back.





	Recycle

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this fic at the exact same moment I got the idea for _The Vacancy._ I had to write one of them down and fast, because I was feeling super-inspired, and quickly settled on doing _The Vacancy_ first. I just started working on this one the day before yesterday, but since I got the ideas for both fics simultaneously, I kind of consider them to be sibling works to each other.

Between the third and fourth floors of the Bismark Library, the Batter waited.  He paced back and forth near the save block, anticipating his puppeteer's return.  For reasons that eluded him, they had decided to take a break from aiding him in his sacred mission.  The Batter would have been annoyed with them, but they were a force beyond his reasoning, and he knew it.  Their entire purpose in the world was to help him, and they would resume fulfilling it shortly.

He just had to be patient.

* * *

The sun rose in Bismark, light streaming in through the windows of the Library.  The Batter didn't glance outside.  He was still pacing, still waiting for his puppeteer.  He couldn't afford to be distracted by the city's sights when they came back, what if he had to fight something?  He kept his mind on his goal, ready to go at any moment.

Surely, they would be back soon.

* * *

The sky darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon.  Downstairs, visitors and staff walked back to their homes, retiring for the night, locking the doors behind them as the last man left.  Every man, that is, except for the Batter.

The Batter kept pacing, quietly.  His puppeteer was still absent.  He knew that they hadn't returned, because he could always feel their control over him when they were there.  He wondered what was keeping them.

Come to think of it, his puppeteer had never left him alone for this long, before.  It was strange, how accustomed he had already grown to their company, the Batter thought.  He itched to run up the stairs and pummel the beasts that grew in the shadows at night, but restrained himself.  If he fell alone, there would be no one there to catch him, and his mission would end.

He could wait.

* * *

The Batter paused his incessant pacing.  He considered for a moment, then turned around and started to pace in the opposite direction.  The sun would be rising again, soon.

An unpleasant, gnawing feeling had been growing in his stomach, recently.  It churned and growled, and he kneaded his hands against his midsection to try and alleviate it.  The Batter recognized the sensation as hunger.  It was something that he rarely experienced, and had never felt this strongly, but it simply couldn't be anything else.

He was so unfamiliar with the sensation of hunger, of course, because of his puppeteer.  Their presence did more than simply move his body through the world.  They were a lifeline, a cord that tethered him to the world of the living even when he should've died many times already.  Even when his neck had been broken, his throat crushed shut, and nearly every drop of his blood spilled on the ground, he could still walk calmly to a save block with their presence permeating his body.

They kept him bright and alert, ready to fight, and supplied him with the energy he needed to press on through the thick impurity that filled his path.  He didn't understand how, but he didn't need to.  Theirs was an awesome realm beyond anything he could possibly imagine, and he never once questioned the blessing he'd been given by their distant touch.

He had faith.  The Batter rubbed his sore stomach, and kept waiting.

* * *

The sun was going down again.  The pain in the Batter's stomach had subsided, despite him not having eaten anything.  The sensation was still strange, _empty,_ but it was better than pain, he decided.  It could almost be described as a _clean_ feeling.

He continued his walking, his mind running ahead to all of the ways he could purify the impures when his puppeteer returned.  There were no distractions in the small, blue stairwell.  Even during the day, no one came through it.  The Batter used this time to plan his strategies of attack, taking out his bat and swinging it through the air a few times for practice.

When his puppeteer returned, he'd be ready.

* * *

The Batter stared at his feet.  How long had he been walking?  His sense of the passage of time was poor at best, and the lack of clocks wasn't helping very much; but for some reason, it seemed to be going by even slower than usual.  His feet dragged along the floor, his limbs felt heavy.

Was he... _tired?_   If so, he absolutely _hated_ it.  Not having the energy to run or swing his bat was an alien feeling, and an unpleasant one at that.  His puppeteer had left him by himself for so long it seemed, that his reserves had finally started to run out.

He never thought he'd be alone long enough to where he'd have to lose consciousness to replenish himself, but he didn't fret.  Soon enough, he would be able to brush all of this nonsense off as a weird dream.  He leaned back into a bookshelf, shutting his eyes.  His body was perfectly still except for his breathing and, for the first time since his quest had begun, the Batter went to sleep.

He wondered if his puppeteer would be there when he woke up.

* * *

The Batter hadn't even been trying to count the number of days that passed.  Light, dark, light, dark, he wasn't paying attention.  Purification wasn't influenced by what time of day or year it was, purification was eternal, and he was purification.

He was still hungry, though.  Hunger would stab him in the gut every so often, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything in who-knows-how-long, and then crawl away, leaving him hollow as ever.  It was getting pretty annoying, to be honest, but he could deal.  Any minute now, it would all be undone.  His throat hurt, but it wasn't like he needed to talk to anybody.

All he needed to do was wait.

* * *

The Batter stopped.  His feet were sore, and if he didn't keep taking little breaks from his pacing every now and then, he'd have to sleep more often (which he did _not_ enjoy).  He didn't like holding still unless his puppeteer told him to do so.  Otherwise, he got restless.  And as things were, walking helped take his mind off of how cold the stairwell had become.

He was almost positive that the stairwell had been warmer when he came in.  The air conditioning from the vents seemed to blow right through him, now.  Did they even _need_ to run cold air up there, if no one was going to use the upper floors?

The Batter looked at his hands.  His fingers and wrists looked a lot thinner than he remembered, the joints sticking out more than usual.  Hmm, that _probably_ wasn't good, he thought.  Testingly, the Batter got out his bat, and held it out in front of him.  Sure enough, it felt considerably heavier than it had to him before.

That _definitely_ wasn't good.

Not that it mattered in the slightest.  The instant his puppeteer returned, he'd be completely refreshed.  It was their presence alone that allowed the healing and cataloging functions of the save blocks to work for him, so no matter which way he looked at it, he had to wait.

The Batter kept walking.

* * *

His legs hurt.  Even when he took breaks from walking or napped against the bookshelf, they hurt.  His joints ached, and there were times when he could barely even feel the soles of his feet, they were so tired.

As much as he hated it, the Batter couldn't bear it any longer.  Not even sleeping was helping the exhaustion he felt.  Carefully, the Batter lowered himself to the floor and sat down.  The metal was cold and hard, but it allowed him to relax the muscles in his legs.

Trying to find a comfortable position on the floor, the Batter waited.

* * *

Someone was coming.

It wasn't his puppeteer, but footsteps were coming up the stairs from the floor below.  The Batter wasn't really interested if they weren't his puppeteer or a spectre.  He didn't feel like striking up a conversation with any of the locals, he felt like getting on with his purpose in life.

Up from the stairs, a small man carrying an armful of books emerged.  The Batter looked at him with disinterest, and the man suddenly noticed the Batter, sitting on the floor.

The man's eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face.  He dropped the books he was carrying.  Then, without a word, turned and bolted back down the stairs as fast as his little legs could carry him.  The Batter listened to the sound of shoes panickedly hitting the stairs growing more distant as the man fled, and then it was quiet.

No one else came up, after that. 

* * *

He was rubbing his stomach again.  Through the cloth layers of his uniform, the Batter could feel his ribcage, no longer insulated by natural layers of fat and muscle.  His stomach didn't quite hurt anymore, but he _knew_ that he needed to fill it.

There was a little black box that he carried around, in which he kept most of his inventory.  Inside were some Jokers, a fistful of luck tickets, and _meat._   Belial's meat, Moloch's meat, Abaddon's meat, and silver flesh.  They were intended purely to be used for healing purposes, but that didn't make them any less _delicious._

But he couldn't eat them.  They were bought to be used in case of battle, not for nourishment.  If he ate any, then he'd have to buy more from Zacharie, and that could effect his mission's outcome in untold ways later on.

However, it was only _consuming_ the meat he wasn't allowed to do.  He could still enjoy it in other ways.  The Batter would sometimes take out a cut of meat and admire it in his hands.  It was all portioned perfectly, and would never spoil.  The consistency they had was firm, wet, always warm, tender enough to be chewed comfortably and go down just right.  
The smell alone was _heavenly,_ and the Batter kept his mouth a respectable distance from the meat, to reduce the temptation to take a bite out of it.  When he swallowed the saliva that pooled behind his teeth at the sight of it, it burned his throat.  When he licked the juices left on his fingers after putting the meat away, it tasted _divine._

If it was too overwhelming to look at and hold the meats, he would otherwise hold the box in his lap, knowing that the meats were within.  He'd run his fingers over the top of the box, not opening it.  If he held his face close enough, he could smell the savory treats inside.  If he inhaled enough of their scent through the seams, it was almost like he was tasting them.

He needed to nap, again.

* * *

It was uncomfortable on the floor.  The Batter was sore nearly all over, and frequently found himself having to change his position to get any relief.  Even though he hadn't been pacing recently, his legs hurt especially much.

Though he knew he couldn't progress without his puppeteer, he wondered if there were any spectres _outside_ the Library.  One could never know-- sometimes he didn't see them until they were right in his face.  The Batter decided to take a peek out the window.  The Library was tall and, even if he weren't at its top, he was sure he'd get a wonderful view of nearly all of Bismark, from where he was.

Shifting his weight, the Batter tried to stand up.  _**Tried.**_

His legs may as well have been jammed, because he couldn't get them to straighten.  Pain stuck pins and needles into his joints, and he was forced to relax them.  Confused, the Batter leaned forward and stretched one leg straight out behind him.  It looked like he could still move them, but he needed to be upright to see outside.

He changed his approach.  Gathering his strength, the Batter placed his hands on the save block and attempted to get up again.  In a second, his head and shoulders were above the block, and in another, everything was spinning.  His whole body trembled, and his legs strained as he struggled to push himself higher, to no avail.  His limbs gave out, and the Batter crashed to the floor.

 _Ow._   Well then.  He guessed he couldn't stand, anymore.  Not an inch of his body didn't feel completely exhausted from the attempt.  He'd have to sleep to recover from it... But it wasn't a problem.  He wasn't busy with anything.  He wasn't purifying, so he didn't need to stand, anyway.

His puppeteer would help him up, when they came back.

* * *

Sitting around all day, unable to walk, was boring.  Since he couldn't pace anymore, he'd taken to occasionally summoning Alpha, and then watching it spin for a while.  However, every single time, the warmth that it radiated would eventually wind up lulling him to sleep.  He _still_ didn't like sleeping.  Sometimes, he'd awake to find he'd sunken from his sitting-up position into lying down, and it would be difficult to right himself.

He hoped that he'd be awake when his puppeteer returned.

* * *

It was strange, but the Batter didn't think he'd ever been in a building that was so quiet before.

His ear was to the floor.  When it was light out, sometimes, he could faintly hear the sound of books being opened and shut downstairs.  He guessed the rule against turning pages due to it being too loud was justified after all.

He liked it better when it was quiet.

* * *

The sun was rising.

Where he was, the Batter could see the deep blue walls and floor of the stairwell, one bookshelf, one of the two windows, and the save block.  It was weird how exhausted he was, considering that he hadn't been doing much of anything.  He'd been spending most of his time asleep lately, but he just kept waking up tired.

He was very, _very_ tired.

The pain in the Batter's stomach had been gone for a while, his throat and mouth felt dry, and the side of his body in contact with the floor ached.  Quietly, he wished for his puppeteer's return.  He imagined that it would feel nice, having them back.  His health would be restored, and he could continue his holy quest at last.  The Batter didn't dream, so he tried to think about it often while awake.

He was patient as ever.  They would return to him.  He was sure of it.  It would all be over, soon.

...

...

...

Someone was coming.

Their approach had been completely silent, and the Batter only noticed them when they came into view, coming up from the third floor.  Being unable to lift his head, the Batter could only clearly see their feet: Black shoes with black socks.  The shoes approached, footfalls not making a sound, until they stopped in front of him.

The mysterious person crouched down on their haunches, to his level, and the Batter finally got a look at them.

The person was a man with a white face, black eyes, and a black baseball cap on his head; he was dressed in a plain white uniform, with a black, long-sleeved shirt underneath.  The man was staring at the Batter, face completely expressionless, saying nothing.

Even if the Batter had had something to say to the man, he wouldn't have been able to.  He was too tired to dwell on who this person was, or where they'd come from.  He could tell that the situation was rather weird, though.  He knew he wasn't dreaming.

The man looked over the Batter's body in silence.  He reached out and touched the Batter's cheek, tilting his head up a bit.  He stared at the Batter's face for a few seconds, before slowly withdrawing his hand.  The Batter was too weak to keep his head up without the support.

The man lifted one of the Batter's arms to examine it more closely.  He ran his fingers over the limb almost as if in curiosity, giving it gentle squeezes and feeling where the bones jutted out.  The man didn't speak, but his mouth fell open, and the Batter saw it was full of long, sharp, triangular teeth.  The man leaned in, tightening his grip, and sank his teeth into the Batter's forearm.

Whatever noise the Batter would've made came out as a harsh, high-pitched sigh.  There was a _crunch,_ and the man lifted his head, taking a chunk out of the Batter's arm.  The man chewed the flesh, and the Batter could only look on, wound bleeding, bone broken.

The man swallowed quickly, and took another bite.  The Batter couldn't even flinch.  He could feel the pain, stinging, an alarm screaming that he was in danger, but it seemed strangely far away, almost like the limb was falling asleep.  
The Batter was worried.  It _hurt,_ and he was so, so weak.  Did this mean that his puppeteer wasn't coming back?  They couldn't come back if he was gone.  Was this the end of him?  Had his quest failed?

No... No, it hadn't failed.  They would return.  He wasn't going to die.  Any second now, his puppeteer was going to come back, and it would all vanish like a bad dream.  He would be saved, and they could both continue his mission exactly the way it had been going, before.  They wouldn't leave him.  He was going to be okay.

The man bit a piece out of the Batter's wrist, and the Batter shut his eyes.  Yes, he was going to be fine.  They would return to him, they would help him purify the world, and everything would be alright.  He was patient.  He would hold on as long as he had to, until they came back.  However many weeks, months, years it took, he would be there, ready to go.  The Batter was tired, and quietly slipped into unconsciousness as the man sucked the blood from his torn flesh.

He would wait.


End file.
